


turn it off, turn me on

by BelovedCreation



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3525896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelovedCreation/pseuds/BelovedCreation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan has been staring at her hot new neighbor for ages, but it takes a malfunctioning elevator to get her to actually talk to the guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn it off, turn me on

Two months after he moved into the apartment down the hall, Emma Swan knows six things about her new neighbor.

The first is that he is devastatingly handsome. He has dark looks and light eyes and a smile she wants pressed against her collarbone and between her thighs.

Second, he is single. A discrete glance at his left hand as he was carrying boxes down the hall (and she, incidentally, was wearing pajamas and carrying a laundry basket of dirty underwear, her hair a mess and glasses sliding off of her nose) shows no signs of a wedding ring. Later investigation yields no girlfriends or children being let into his place.

The third piece of information is his name,  _K Jones_ , the typed-up label neatly placed on his mailbox.

Fourth, Emma Swan knows that her dreamy neighbor leaves his apartment every day at 8:15 on the dot and takes the elevator down to the ground floor. She learns this information when she heads out early one morning, a craving for chocolate bear claws driving her out the door. She almost runs into  _K Jones_  in the process, her hands flailing and steadying on broad, muscled shoulders.

"Excuse me, love. I didn't mean to startle you."

(That's how she learns the sixth and final thing, that he is British. And  _good lord_  what a thing to discover before your morning sugar rush. It might have killed her.)

The next day, Emma wakes up with a craving of a different sort and locks her apartment door behind her at 8:14, working on a theory. A minute later,  _K Jones_  steps out, wearing a three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase.

"Morning," he smiles, dimples forming and solidifying her decision to never  _ever_  sleep in again.

Of course, Emma doesn't  _speak_  to him. That would be the normal, mature thing for a grown-up to do. Instead, she continues to get to work 15 minutes early because she's decided there's nothing better to get the blood flowing than the sight of a gorgeous man letting you step into the elevator first and and softly wishing you a "good day" as you leave the building to walk in opposite directions.

On a certain Thursday morning, Emma almost misses her daily run-ins with  _K Jones_ , a backfiring car startling her awake instead of her alarm. Damn thunderstorms the night before have left her with a dead phone, and the analogue clock on the wall cheerily ticks  _eight oh three_. She takes the fastest shower of her life and throws a granola bar and bottled Starbucks frappicino in her purse. The storm may have kept her up all night but she will be damned if she misses another shy smile and gentle "hello."

It has to be 8:16 when she slams the apartment door behind her, but to her surprise  _K Jones_  is still locking his door, giving her a slight nod over his shoulder as his wrist turns and secures the deadbolt.

(Her heart twists painfully and Emma almost doesn't mind how her hair is dripping onto her blazer and her eyeliner is clearly the smudged remains of yesterday's makeup. He's too pretty for the world, this one.)

Emma makes her way toward the elevator and presses the  _down_  button, her breath catching a moment later when she can feel his presence behind her, warm and male. She has to hold herself back from leaning into him when he does this, from imagining how their morning routine could enter the realm of kisses and touches and affectionate whispers.

"That was quite the storm last night," he says conversationally when they've stepped inside the elevator and she has safely moved to the opposite side, the more distance the better. Emma nods in a distracted way, not trusting herself to speak.  _God_  he must think she's an idiot or something, the way she never says anything. She bites her lip and battles with herself, deciding whether she should respond (and  _how_  she should respond), and when she finally decides to verbally agree with him,  _it happens._

The elevator stops.

It fucking stops.

Of fucking course.

"Shit," Emma swears, grabbing on to the rail with a start, trying to keep her balance in the ridiculous heels she always wears. He has gripped the rail on the other side, eyes now alert and cautious.

"Bloody hell," he grumbles.

"Do you think we're stuck?"

_K Jones_  looks at her and then at the control panel, eyes zeroing in on the emergency phone. "I think we are, lass." He picks up the receiver and holds it to his ear. His lashes slowly lower and he breathes out a low, frustrated sigh. "No dial tone."

"Shit," she swears again. "Must have been the power outages. Should we call for help?"

He pulls out a sleek cell from his jacket but a slide of his thumb brings another look of exasperation. "No service. Yours?"

"Dead. Didn't charge last night."

"Of course it didn't." He smiles, but this one is sarcastic and it sends a slight shiver through Emma, to see a range of his amusement. Its thrilling, really, despite the strangeness of the situation, to see him as a real human being. He's always been this mild-mannered neighbor with a hot ass. To see his personality... well, it actually makes him more attractive, dammit.

"Should we yell for help? Try to pry open the door?"

He leans against the wall and gives her an appraising look, eyes traveling from her heels up her pants, silk shirt, and blazer, and finally meeting her gaze. "You are welcome to try, love, but the best course of action may be to wait until the power returns."

Emma bites her lip in thought before sighing and slipping off her shoes. "Sounds like a plan."

They both ease onto the ground, sitting across from one another in the small space, legs crossed and work bags disregarded.

"I do not believe I have ever introduced myself. Killian Jones." He leans forward with an outstretched hand and Emma meets him in the middle, breath hitching when his warm palm meets hers, forcing herself to pull away before she makes it hella awkward.

"Emma Swan."

"Swan." He rolls the name around in his mouth, the soft syllable falling out with a light in his eyes. "I like it."

(She likes it too, the way her name sounds on his lips, and she'd like other things of hers in his mouth.)

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Not painfully awkward, but more unsure. Tentative, really. She doesn't know what to say and maybe he doesn't either.

He finally sighs and shifts a bit, eyes now dancing with amusement. "Who knows how long we will be trapped in here. Perhaps some conversation to pass the time?"

Emma nods. "Sounds good. What do you want to talk about?"

"Well we should get the pleasantries out of the way, don't you think? Occupation, family, relationship status..."

"Relationship status?" She sits up taller at that one, a bit suspicious and unable to stop her smile from mirroring his sly smirk. "Is that one of the usual questions?"

His tongue escapes his mouth to make a slow trail on his bottom lip and Emma almost groans at it, almost collapses in an embarrassing heap when the guy she's been eyeing for weeks makes a cheap and obvious move. "It is a natural question for me to ask when I am trapped in a small space with a beautiful woman."

"Ah," Emma folds her arms and sits back. "So you're one of  _those_ guys."

"Pardon?"

"You know. A player. Someone who constantly hits on women."

He scoffs and his thick eyebrows meet his hairline and she would think he is angry if not for the amusement that is clearly written all over his face. "I will have you know that I am by no means a  _player_. I have refrained from propositioning you this long, haven't I?" His voice lowers and he leans forward with hooded eyes. "Despite those delightful  _duckie_  pajama shorts you were wearing when I first saw you."

Emma almost gasps, instead feeling her face pinching into a look of horror. "You remember the duckie pajamas?"

"Love," he grins, "I haven't been able to get them off of my mind."

She can feel her heart pounding in her chest, head spinning and wondering what this all means, what the  _fuck_  is going on with the significant look he’s giving her and the tension cackling between them, enough energy to start this elevator again if only they knew how to harness it.

"I must admit," his eyes focus on his hands, twisted in his lap, and he looks like a child almost, uncertain but determined, "that I was disappointed when you refused to speak to me on our daily elevator rides. If you would prefer me to take the stairs or depart at a different time, I can-"

But that's all she lets him say before cutting him off with a kiss.

His lips taste like tea and when he grunts in surprise, lips parting, her tongue surges forward to taste all of him, to cup his face with her hands and be impulsive for once, to kiss her hot neighbor and not care about the consequences or the awkwardness. He grunts again, lower, and his fingers dig into her waist, pulling her half on his lap and tangling their limbs together, a mess of sensible, water-resistant fabrics.

Emma’s used to kissing strangers. In bars, in clubs. Men whose faces she doesn’t remember the next morning. But its different this time, with  _K Jones_  and his elegant air and dangerous smirks and the way he knows instinctively how to move and caress, how to nibble and tease. It makes her giddy in a way none of the other kisses have and she sorta doesn’t want it to end.

But she pulls away eventually, lips tingling and his fingers buried in her still-soaked hair.

"Or if you'd rather," he continues slowly, eyes carefully looking back-and-forth between hers, pupils blown wide, "you could come over to my apartment at six this evening and I could show you  _my_ embarrassing pajamas."

She nods breathlessly, not breaking their gaze. "I would like that. Do you have bunnies or superheroes?"

A smile blooms on those lips of his, now swollen from kissing, and her heart speeds up again, confused and delighted by this turn of events. "To be honest, Emma, I usually sleep in the nude."

"How interesting Killian," she retorts, nose brushing against his, "so do I."

When the elevator rumbles back to life twenty minutes later and spits them out on the ground floor, Emma's hair is tangled beyond all hope and two of the buttons of his waistcoat roll around the floor, a hazard to future riders. But Emma's smiling too hard to care, Killian Jones escorting her from their temporary prison and brushing his lips against hers at the building door an infinitely better farewell than she had received on Wednesday.

On Friday she meets him in the hallway at 8:15 and he tastes like the egg sandwiches he made them for breakfast, sweatpants low on his hips and glasses of his own slipping off of his nose. She smiles into his neck when they pull away and he holds her against his chest, steady and secure.

"Good morning, Swan," he murmurs. “Shall we?"

They take the stairs.


End file.
